


No Quarter

by kanadka



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Friends May Be Pushing It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/kanadka
Summary: A collection of Sinclair & Neroon moments that weren't Legacies.





	No Quarter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [B5 Love Month](https://babylon5-love.dreamwidth.org/) 2019\. Which was in February, I just take a long time to post things for no good reason!
> 
> Spoilers for, and the occasional dialogue line from, the first four Babylon 5 comics and the Kathryn M Drennan novel 'To Dream in the City of Sorrows' and pretty much everything about Sinclair's character arc past Season 1.

Sinclair arrives on Minbar in 2259, after having been briefed at Earth Central by the new President, Clark himself. It's hard to take in everything. The Minbari stopped because they think we have their souls. Of all the excuses. Sinclair isn't the most religious guy, though he's not the least religious guy either, but it's a long shot of a tale. Besides, it places all the power in - who else - the hands of the Minbari. It's *their* religion that made them stop, not any of Earth's.

Sinclair's way to Minbar isn't as smooth a ride as it could be. Racine - Satai for the Worker Caste - accompanies him for the most part on the Grey Council cruiser. Worker Caste is fine, thinks Sinclair. Actually, Worker Caste is even *better*. After all, now that he can remember those missing twenty-four hours, he remembers it was the Religious and the Warrior Castes who drugged him, beat him, and tortured him, until they realised he was Minbari enough not to dispose of. Neroon's scowl. Rathenn's leer. Delenn's supercilious smile. They all have new meanings.

What happened, old friend, wonders Sinclair. And he realises that maybe she was only ever a friend because she wanted to keep tabs on him.

No, that can't be. Delenn's learnt something in her time on Babylon 5, surely. The Minbari - can't be _so _bad. They can learn. Even their military caste. Didn't Neroon apologise for his actions involving his superior officer Branmer's death?

A flyer docks en route to Minbar, for the ceremony to install a new Chosen One (the first of their kind since Dukhat). That's why Sinclair thinks he sees Delenn on the cruiser. Why wouldn't Delenn be at the ceremony? Isn't that her job? And Garibaldi said she'd be there. She's _different_, he'd added. But Sinclair can't get close enough to talk before the Warrior Caste guard bars his way.

\--

She comes to him later, in Yedor before the Chosen One's parade. She _is_ different.

"I am now only half-Minbari," she explains. "I am also half-_Human_." Her hair is glossy dark brown and sleek and it falls in waves around and about her crest. Sinclair looks to the Warrior Caste guards who have accompanied her, but they stand stock still at the door, one male and one female. If either of them disapprove, they don't react. Sinclair blinks, disbelieving, but Delenn remains as she is. He raises a hand almost to touch it, to convince himself it's really there, it's not glued on, but a warning look from Delenn has him frozen.

"Why would you do this?" he asks instead.

"It is foretold," she says. He has more questions but Delenn puts up a slender hand and he stops. "I can explain no further. It is good to see you again, but I must attend the ceremony. Will you be joining us?"

Sinclair shakes his head. "I'll be watching it from up here," he says, referring to his high vantage point above the central plaza. "Where I won't be a distraction -"

A Warrior Caste member interrupts them, bursting into the room. "Kozorr?" asks Delenn.

Kozorr is angry and scowling, but not enough to forget his manners, and he bows deeply like the Warriors always do. "Excuse the intrusion, Satai. But I would prefer it if you would remain for a moment to act as witness..."

\--

A map of the parade procession. A plasma-rifle. Hidden in a false top on Sinclair's luggage. A message from Babylon 5 sent to Minbar advising them an assassin was on the planet. I know I packed those bags myself, Sinclair thinks, I know I don't have a false top on my damn luggage. This all smacks of a set-up. Of course, things can never be simple on Minbar. But nobody will believe Sinclair except Delenn, and though she is Satai, which means something to these people, she's only one of nine. Rathenn has already begun keeping his distance. So has Racine.

Sinclair's not lying, and Minbari don't lie. But according to whatever process they did with their triluminary, he's not Minbari enough to rely on that alone. And so they must go to court, where he meets a familiar scowling face.

"Ambassador Sinclair," announces Neroon, in the judicial council chamber. "You stand accused of plotting to assassinate the Chosen One, our Leader. How do you plead?"

Evidently all love is lost, if there ever was any to begin with. Neroon had seemed so sincere in his apology. What happened? Where is that man now? He can't have been acting. Isn't all acting lying, in the end?

"Answer the court!" thunders Neroon.

\--

In the end, time is bought by Delenn's interference (though Neroon tries his best to bar her from the tribunal entirely, citing conflict of interest - and Sinclair hates to admit it, he's probably correct, but if that were the case then Neroon himself shouldn't be anywhere near the tribunal because _they_ have history too, and yet here Neroon is). Further information from Babylon 5 that shows Miss Winters uncovered an assassination plot, but it's Human-led, and that's not good enough for the Minbari, certainly not the Warrior Caste. Sinclair humbly suggests sacrificing his own life in exchange for a second Earth-Minbari war - maybe an openly honourable move will help convince Neroon out of banging the war drums on the Earth Alliance as a whole? And the judges grant the request before a single Minbari man, about as old as Racine, strides into the judicial chamber, resplendent in white, with a gold belt.

This, Sinclair finds out later, is Jenimer.

Jenimer withdraws all charges against Sinclair and pardons him in full, as is his right both as Chosen One and as the target of assassination, and that's that. Neroon _has_ to accept it, and he does, though he curls his lip in a hateful grimace.

"If _I_ were in charge of this investigation," growls Neroon, "it _would_ have gone differently. _Your_ people organised this."

"And you won't forget that anytime soon," supposes Sinclair.

"I have not forgotten it since the end of your war!" Neroon shouts. "Your kind have shown time and again that you _lack_ honour. We should not even deal with you at all, though our _Religious_ Caste bids it so." He waves a dismissive hand at Jenimer and storms out of the chamber.

\--

A few weeks later, Sinclair is firmly entrenched as Ambassador. During this time he's done practically nothing - he can hardly contact the StellarCom system, because the Minbari say there's an communications tower outage, but he's not convinced - but finally he receives a message calling him to an appointment. A meeting with the Council of Caste Elders. Rathenn comes in person to accompany him. "This is standard," he explains. "For all ambassadors, when we have them."

"I'm not exactly a standard ambassador," reminds Sinclair.

"You are the first of your kind," says Rathenn. "Perhaps, the first of many." He smiles, grim. "I have not had the chance to apologise for my actions."

"Oh, the trial? Think nothing of it," says Sinclair, smiling warmly, "in the end nobody died, and there was no war. No harm but the hurt feelings of the Warrior Caste."

"I meant aboard the Grey Council cruiser," says Rathenn. "When we probed your mind for information and stumbled upon your soul."

Sinclair's smile fades. _That's_ not nothing. He can't seem to find good words to tell Rathenn - he doesn't forgive him - so he says only, "Apology accepted," and hopes that Rathenn is more honest about his apologies than Neroon is.

Sinclair is surprised to see Neroon there. "Can I not get away from him," he murmurs. "Doesn't he live on the other side of the planet?"

"Alyt Neroon has served the Council of Caste Elders for three cycles," says Rathenn.

"I get it," says Sinclair wryly. "He was here first."

Neroon wastes no time in making Sinclair feel as uninvited as possible. He is contemptuous and openly mocking of Sinclair (who isn't allowed to speak unless spoken to). "Do not forget," he warns, "that it was this man who was convicted of the assassination attempt on our Chosen One. What is it the Humans say? They're back on their bull-"

"Ahem," says Rathenn. "The Chosen One absolved him of that."

"Indeed," Neroon sneers, "at the eleventh hour, no less. How lucky." He turns his attention to Sinclair. "I wonder whether you too will be lucky. Or will you sample your own flarn in regards this assassination."

Sinclair narrows his eyes. "What is it you mean by that?"

"I understand assassinate is the term you use for _murder_, when it is directed at a person of some position," says Neroon. "Now you too have attained _some position_. Don't you find that fitting? I certainly do."

His blood runs cold in his veins. This isn't the first time the Minbari have made him nervous, or angry, but it's the first time he's felt so much of both at the same time. Neroon's face has never looked more punchable, though Sinclair might split the skin of his knuckles on the bones. It's tempting all the same. "Is that a threat?"

"Advice," hisses Neroon.

"Since the Star Rider Caste Elder has now exchanged enough words for the entire Warrior Caste, perhaps the _Worker_ Caste Elders would like a turn to speak with our Human Ambassador," interjects Rathenn, and from the way nine of the people in the crowd half-smile and straighten, he's right.

\--

They run into each other once more in Yedor before Sinclair leaves for Tuzanor. For Sinclair, Yedor has not yet become home, since Rathenn has started making suggestions that Sinclair doesn't feel able to refuse. But Neroon is rarely in Yedor anymore except for business. Business must have drawn him here once again: there's a Warrior Caste function in the city, and Neroon is probably expected to attend. Sinclair knows about it because Rathenn briefed him and told him to lie low for the day. Rathenn neglected to brief him about what the ceremony involves. Given the fact that Sinclair was framed the last time there was a ceremony, he can almost understand why, but Rathenn's got a tedious way of being secretive. All the Religious Caste do, come to think of it. Sinclair is never allowed to know things until too late. Well, too late is what it already is.

Sinclair's curious. He actually doesn't know that much about the Warrior Caste's culture, come to think of it. They've got to do other things than bang war drums all the time, surely? They must have _some_ kind of culture. Prussia did, back in historical times. So did America even at her most belligerent. And no one will ever tell Sinclair of it because the Warrior Caste is so exclusive to outsiders, so Sinclair may as well find out for himself.

He watches from his high vantage point in his apartment. He can't pick out Neroon from any one of the rest of the crowd. There's some marching, some flag waving, a few impressive dances with swords and long metal staves that remind him of the bo fighting he used to do, and one warrior resplendent in the march dressed in what looks like plumage, like great wings made of blue pipe. It takes Sinclair too long to realise it's meant to symbolise a Sharlin cruiser.

Eventually, the drums and the harps fall silent, and the people mostly clear out. Only then does Sinclair venture down to ground level. He's drawing the eyes of many, now. That's something he's become used to (being the only human on Minbar will do that) but today feels more auspicious than usual. He refuses to feel cowed, though the Minbari are doing a good job at trying.

After a few moments, Neroon appears at his shoulder. "What are you doing here, you fool Human?" he growls.

"Why, Neroon, you sound anxious. For my sake? Didn't know you cared," says Sinclair blandly.

Neroon doesn't deign to reply. "I highly doubt you intend to have participated in the annual marking of the loss of the Drala Fi."

Well. That makes sense, when he thinks about it. But the parade is over and Neroon can't expect him to stay in all day. "I wasn't even on the Lexington," he says.

"No, your Babylon station replacement _Starkiller_ was."

"I lost people in that war too," protests Sinclair. "More than your kind did. I don't glorify the destruction of the Drala Fi like a trophy, the way some do."

"I lost my father aboard that very ship, the one whose loss we honour today," spits Neroon. "He was fifty times the man you are."

"I guess you take after your mother," retorts Sinclair.

Neroon tightens his fist - three inch-long crystal blades pop out of the black glove at the knuckles. Like Wolverine from that old style comic lit. It looks ridiculous, but Sinclair doesn't fancy his chances against them.

"That said, I won't apologise for my part in the war," says Sinclair.

"Nor do I for mine," says Neroon.

"That's right, you're proud of your genocide, as this parade proves," Sinclair mutters.

"If there were anything of Humanity worth saving, I've yet to see it!" snaps Neroon. "As far as I'm concerned, the universe is better off without you."

"I'd leave the interpretation of the state of the universe to your priests if I were you. Good day, Alyt." Sinclair turns on his heel and marches right back into his apartment. He'll wait until Neroon is gone before he takes another walk, though it galls him to kowtow to a _schoolyard bully_.

\--

Not long after, Jenimer himself calls for a meeting with Sinclair and Rathenn, during which he offers Sinclair the position of Anla'shok Na. He has to first explain what the Anla'shok are: a crew of information-scavengers, lightly armed.

"This sounds like a job better suited for the Warrior Caste," suggests Sinclair.

"It absolutely is _not_," says Jenimer. "Their actions in recent days have shown they bear no heed to our laws or standards of honour. I could not entrust them with the Anla'shok." Sinclair doesn't understand, but understanding is not required, because Jenimer is confident enough about his skills and vociferous enough about his opinions on the Warrior Caste, and that's enough for Sinclair, who has learnt by now to trust Jenimer's very good instincts.

"There is one more thing," says Jenimer, as Sinclair is about to leave. "You shall not have only the title Anla'shok Na, but that of Entil'Zha."

Rathenn gasps, just barely a sound.

"Do you disagree, Satai Rathenn?" asks Jenimer.

"Not with you, Chosen One," says Rathenn, "never. But...the prophecy..."

"Did not mention anyone by name," Jenimer finishes.

Rathenn is not as convinced. "How then are you so sure it is he?"

Jenimer explains his side of the story. Educated by Jesuits, forged by Earthforce, and worked enough summers of labour to please the Worker Caste. Three castes, but he's from neither caste. It's... it's dubious reasoning at best, but Sinclair doesn't want to get into prophecy interpretation with the Chosen One, who was in his day a religious scholar. "Is there a significant difference in terms?" asks Sinclair instead. "Anla'shok Na, versus Entil'Zha?"

"One is simply the most senior Anla'shok. The other is a force mentioned by Valen in his prophecies," Rathenn tells him. "You can read them if you like." That, thinks Sinclair, is probably a good idea.

Entil'Zha, Sinclair reads. _Out of shadows, hope shall emerge triumphant in the form of one who comes from outside the three castes, yet is of the three castes; Minbari not born of Minbari, who shall become Entil'Zha and awaken the Anla'shok, as the Shadows have been awakened, and lead them in the battle to defeat the Shadows. The one who comes after Valen. In Valen's name._

"This is a lot of pressure," Sinclair tells Jenimer, when next they meet.

"_**So are formed the Ones**_," intones the Vorlon Ambassador, Ulkesh Naranek, who remains an enigma kept secret by the Chosen One and the Religious Caste Satai.

Jenimer looks pleased. "You see?" he says, gesturing to the Vorlon. "Exactly what I thought."

Sinclair doesn't see at all.

\--

Few warriors in the Council of Caste Elders are pleased to hear that he intends to open membership in the (formerly Warrior Caste exclusive) Anla'shok to the Worker and Religious Castes. Few are less pleased than Alyt Neroon. But Sinclair isn't done.

"Humans, too," he has already suggested to Jenimer, and when he announces it in the Council, it's a step too far for many. He had anticipated this. But Jenimer and Rathenn agree - there's a Valennic prophecy they cite about that, too, as being a perfect clue. (Sinclair's read the text himself. _For a door has two sides_, Valen wrote. It's vague and interpretive at best.)

Still, many voices object. Loudest of all is Neroon.

"An outrage!" Neroon cries. "That a few members of our Religious Caste have misled our beloved Chosen One into participating in an illegal attempt to subvert the will of the Grey Council? Or the outrage that they would wilfully misinterpret a sacred prophecy to twist it beyond recognition, in an obscene attempt to make us believe it could ever refer to a Human!"

Neroon's words have Sinclair thinking. _Twisted_ beyond recognition... If he can twist Neroon's words just enough, he might convince the other Caste Elders to allow Humans in the Anla'shok. But he can't twist so far that Neroon cannot save face.

I could take him, part of him thinks. If I had to. Physically. I've done it once before.

But Neroon strides like a predator all over the Council hall with his rhetoric and his drama and Sinclair finds he doesn't want to draw undue attention to himself by making an enemy of someone like Neroon, who clearly has the presence to command half the audience with his voice and the other half with his gestures.

"Look at him," says Neroon. "Standing there, with smug insolence. In this consecrated hall that no Human should ever have been allowed to defile. How many insults shall we endure at the hands of these Humans? How many more outrages can we expect you and your kind to heap upon us?"

At last, he's asked a direct question, and Sinclair is allowed to speak in these halls, and give him an answer.

Sinclair is respectful, as best he can be, though Neroon probably thinks ill of his command of the warrior Minbari tongue anyway. He begins by agreeing with Neroon on a few points: the obvious, that the assassination attempt was an outrage and a disgrace, and that he was ashamed on behalf of the Humanity that may or may not have taken part in the plot.

And the less obvious: "I also don't believe I'm the fulfillment of any prophecy, Minbari or otherwise," says Sinclair. "I'm just a simple fighter pilot. A soldier." Like you, he thinks. Neroon frowns.

He tells Neroon he'd love to be home. He tells him he'd love not to take the job. That the past five years he hasn't held a position he actually chose to take but that he's been appointed and elected beyond his ability to refuse and that this is no different, one more job he performs not by choice but by duty. That it's tempting to stick his head in the sand and pretend the Shadows haven't returned, that nothing is wrong, but that he can't do that - he just can't, he values life too much - _all_ life, Minbari, Human, all of it. That duty compels him and drives him. That it's a matter of survival now, not prophecy and religion. That if they let him, he'll train the Anla'shok well enough to fulfill the duty Valen asked of them a thousand years ago, and that he hopes they'll allow Humanity to help in that task this time, because a door has two sides.

Without realising it, he bares his heart and soul to Neroon and spills it over the Council floor.

God, thinks Sinclair, he's got to think I'm genuine. He's _got_ to.

Silence follows his statements. Then Neroon slow-claps in mockery. "Quite a little speech, Ambassador," he says acidly.

Sinclair's heart sinks, and Neroon goes on to berate him in front of the Council with tirade and insult.

It ends in a period of deliberation. But just as Sinclair believes it's a lost cause, the Council comes back and Neroon himself announces it:

"The Caste Elders agree with the honoured Satai to permit the proposal: to recommission the Anla'shok to _full military readiness_, to allow both the Religious and Worker Caste to join, should they qualify ..."

He pauses. This is the moment of truth - Sinclair holds his breath -

"And to allow Humans to join also," says Neroon, loud and clear, though turmoil builds in the crowd behind him in whispers, "_as long as certain conditions are met_. First, while we give permission for the Anla'shok to be trained to perform the role they had in the last Shadow war, they may not be used to instigate war. They must continue to observe and gather intelligence, give aid to our friends and allies among the other worlds, where such help serves the common good, and to defend themselves when necessary. But they will take no action that will attract unwanted attention from the Shadows to Minbar."

Sinclair agrees. Neroon turns again to face him. "You may assume the title and function as Ranger One, _but not_ the designation of Entil'Zha _until_ you can prove yourself worthy of such a title," he snaps pointedly. Neroon's eyes say clearly that he doubts that will ever happen.

Sinclair nods once, solemn.

And that's the last they see of each other for quite some time. From the way Neroon stalks out of the Council chamber, it looks like he's more than glad. The feeling's mutual.

\--

There is naturally no word when Neroon is made Satai. More worryingly, _Jenimer_ doesn't even know about it.

When Sinclair inquires with Rathenn later, he says only that, "Things may have to come to pass like this before _we_ may pass _them_."

"You voted for him?" says Sinclair, incredulous. "I thought your Valen said balance!"

Rathenn neither confirms nor denies it, though his facial expression sours. "Valen also said out of balance comes unbalance before rebalance," he points out. While it's technically a valid Valennic prophecy, that all sounds terribly vague. Maybe Neroon has a point when he talks about reading a little too much into the texts. The Religious Caste does it too, they're just more convinced of it than the Warrior Caste, and they promote their conviction as evidence for their argument. And since conviction and faith is part and parcel of their caste, Sinclair wonders if it's all that fair, in the end, to be the best at wielding weapons only your caste was trained to use.

He doesn't argue with Rathenn about it, though.

"Well, it's your decision," Sinclair says. "If you think Neroon will really be a good choice..."

Four warriors on the council. Just one swing vote and they get whatever they want! That's an alarming thought.

"As Satai, he may be more tempered," says Rathenn. "His hotheaded-ness is borne of his position. No one pays attention to the regard of one Alyt among the whole standing army."

"He was plenty hot as a Caste Elder earlier," counters Sinclair.

"He is still Caste Elder," says Rathenn.

Sinclair shakes his head. "You really do give him too much power."

"I disagree. We give him power enough, indeed, but we give him work, too."

"You think he'll quit with the overwork?"

"Out of unbalance comes rebalance," says Rathenn, typically cryptic.

\--

But Neroon doesn't quit. Rathenn begins complaining more and more about the changes Neroon makes. "He is obviously courting the Worker Caste," says Rathenn grumpily.

This surprises Sinclair. He hadn't thought Neroon thought so highly of them. Perhaps it was simply that Neroon thought that much _less_ of the Religious Caste.

Sinclair studies the changes Neroon proposes - which, if Rathenn is correct (there are no minutes taken in the Grey Council, making it murkier still) would easily seduce the Worker Caste. And that's the swing vote, thinks Sinclair.

"He must work hard to convince the other Warrior Satai," says Rathenn, "but in the end they always vote with their caste. If enough of the Workers are convinced ..." Rathenn trails off. He clearly doesn't want to entertain the logical process.

"What harm could come of it?" asks Sinclair.

"Two castes against a third," grumbles Rathenn.

"Hasn't it always been that way?" says Sinclair. "You took the Workers' support for a sure thing for many years."

"You have been talking to Satai Racine," says Rathenn, pouting.

But no, Sinclair hasn't. He's just been watching, and slowly, surely, trying to understand the power play dynamics.

Neroon is very clever, he thinks. Chess is more their speed but Sinclair wonders what the Minbari would think of poker.

\--

Jenimer doesn't _seem_ frail or wizened. He is old, that's true enough, but so is Racine. (Rathenn is older than Sinclair but not as old as Jenimer, and as for Neroon... Sinclair has no idea.)

But Jenimer collapses once, and then once more, and the second time he collapses, he doesn't get up again.

They move him from the mobility chair to his bed at his barely-conscious request, and that, it appears, is the end drawing nigh.

"Death is the road to awe," says Rathenn. "We return the part of the universe we carry within ourselves back to the stars. In Valen's name!"

"In Valen's name," repeats Filarel, the other Religious Caste Satai present in Jenimer's room, and the Worker Satai murmur their assent. The four Warriors are tight-lipped.

It all sounds very poetic, and Jenimer's face is restful - he's clearly made his peace with it - if his wife and children haven't. But Sinclair isn't sure to extend sympathies if they, like Rathenn, consider it not a tragedy but an honour, to be reaccepted by the universe.

Sinclair has never before seen an infant Minbari. Jenimer's grandchild, he suspects. It's a tiny thing, swaddled in white. Pale milk skin where a white human baby is pinkish, and it has a faint blueish mottling on the top of its bald head. There is the beginning of a bone structure at its temples but it is a softer grey colour, lumpish and ill-formed, not as sharp-looking. Its eyes are open (dark brown, Sinclair notices) and it looks at Sinclair with wide-eyed wonder. There, he thinks. I'm just as alien to you as any of the people in here who aren't your parents.

Jenimer calls him over. His strength is clearly failing him; it takes him strenuous effort to do. He barely manages his last words to Sinclair: "Remember me kindly. Continue to dream - you dream for us all."

So much exertion just for that, thinks Sinclair. Yet he's indescribably touched.

Then, Jenimer beckons to Neroon. Four of nine, a sore thumb where he doesn't belong. Neroon for a scant moment looks terrified - Sinclair believes he can hear the _oh stars why me?_ even though he's psi-null. But Neroon shuffles over to Jenimer anyway. Jenimer takes his hand. Neroon doesn't look like he really wants to give it, but hasn't much choice. He leans down. Jenimer whispers something; Neroon's face is inscrutable. Sinclair's dying to know _what_ it was.

Jenimer's death is spared from Sinclair's view. A team of healers swarms him suddenly, and Rathenn tugs at Sinclair's elbow to draw him away to an adjoining waiting chamber. It's pitch black. More people file in, but they too wait with Sinclair in the darkness and Sinclair can only hear their hushed voices and feel their body heat as they pack inside the room.

A single light clicks on. Into the beam steps Neroon, his hood thrown back, his posture stiff. "The Chosen One's soul has returned to the great void from which we all arise, and to which we will all someday return," he says, dispassionate. He doesn't even try to sound like he believes it.

Others begin chanting, murmuring, prayers and litanies. Neroon says nothing. He neither leads the prayer, nor participates in it, simply waits for it to be over.

At last the voices fall. Neroon approaches Sinclair, step by echoing step, until he's right in front of him, inches away. He studies Sinclair with a furious expression, but his voice is carefully neutral as he loudly proclaims, "It was our Chosen One's sole last wish that Jeffrey David Sinclair of Earth be ordained, in the proper ceremony, before a quarter lunar cycle concludes, as Entil'Zha to follow in the sacred way of Valen. And thus... it shall be done."

The last thing Sinclair sees is Neroon's dark eyes boring into his, before the room plunges into darkness.

Sinclair doesn't move. He tenses, wondering if Neroon will attack him. No, even Neroon wouldn't do such a thing. (Though... waiting and lurking in the dark to ambush Sinclair... Neroon has literally done precisely this, once before.)

Everybody else files out in a long, slow, procession, as the glass on the upper skylights slowly filters clear. Sinclair is dismayed to learn once the light returns that Neroon is still standing in front of him. He hasn't even moved, has he? He spent all that time, standing there. Watching, waiting. Sinclair wonders if Minbari can see in the dark. Another thing he should've asked Stephen about when he'd had the chance.

Rathenn slowly approaches beside them both, and explains, after everybody has left, that as Religious Caste Satai, he will assist in the ceremony.

"I too," says Neroon. He sounds bitter again. "I do not know _why_ our departed leader chose _me_ for this unhappy task. Probably it is a punishment. But I will carry out my duty and oversee the preparations for the ceremony."

Well. That's an end of it. Neroon can't complain anymore, and maybe Neroon realises that too because he turns to leave.

Then something strikes Sinclair. He catches up to Neroon in a few quick strides. "You could have denied it," he says. "Only _you_ heard that missive. Jenimer didn't say anything of it to me. So, I'm curious... why go ahead and make public an edict that you so obviously disagree with, when you could just as easily have said nothing at all?"

Rathenn gapes. Neroon's lip curls as he says, "Only a Human would think of denying it! Only a Human could ask such a question!"

Sinclair steps closer to Neroon. Was it duty? Duty, Sinclair would understand. "Look me in the eye," he says, "and tell me it didn't cross your mind, and I'll believe you."

Neroon looks him in the eye and says, "You go too far, Sinclair."

"That's not a no," Sinclair replies.

"I honour our leader's last request because it is my _duty_ to do so!" says Neroon. Sinclair's triumphant grin only eggs Neroon on. I knew it, Sinclair thinks, duty above all. "Because I had come to respect the Chosen One as a person of will and strength, all the more impressive because of his physical frailty. And because I am told, whatever else you may be or represent, that you do not believe this outrageous falsehood about the transference of our souls to your Human species any more than I do. - Yes, I was told the story when I joined the Grey Council. Had I been told at the Battle of the Line that this was the reason we were surrendering, I would _never have stopped fighting_."

"You're proud to say that?" Sinclair asks. "That you'd have carried on with genocide? Even now, after all this time?"

What is it that is in Neroon's eyes when he asks this question? Uncertainty? Neroon has never seemed like the type to second-guess himself. He doesn't seem to realise he's let it slip. But Sinclair is carefully watching.

It amuses him. You see, Sinclair wants to say, we're quite similar, you and I. You don't want to do this any more than I do. All that talk about duty _did_ get to you. You know what you saw in the Council chamber. You know what mettle we Humans can be made of. And it's honourable stuff and you can't deny that anymore. Sinclair feels victorious, having not only won this round but also gained the upper hand. I've got a splinter under your skin now, Neroon.

"And if the _Rangers_," drawls Neroon, using the English term, "are to be mostly Human, well, I see little harm in a Human Entil'Zha. As long as he does not fancy himself to _be_ Minbari, or covet any position of power among _my_ people. But know that we will be watching carefully."

Watch me all you want. "Would you look at that," Sinclair says, "it seems we have more in common than you want to admit."

Neroon says nothing more. He huffs, in impatience and disapproval, and tears out of the room.

"Satai Neroon is correct," murmurs Rathenn to him afterwards. "You _do_ go too far."

But Entil'Zha he shall be.

\--

Neroon becomes an annoying and semi-constant fixture in his life. Twice a week he meets with Sinclair and Rathenn - mostly Neroon and Rathenn do the talking, and Sinclair tries not to infuriate Neroon anymore than he already does by merely existing.

He watches Neroon during these sessions. Rathenn, too, but Rathenn is far less interesting to watch. Rathenn is transparent about his beliefs. Rathenn has been secretive but no more so than the rest of the Religious Caste. Neroon is honest in his hatred.

More than once Neroon cracks jokes. Puns, mostly, usually at Rathenn's expense or the Religious Caste as a whole. Rathenn doesn't reciprocate or acknowledge, but Neroon smirks at his own jokes anyway. Once he makes a pun about dishonour and the way that the Humans think (according to his experience). It's untranslateable into English, but the meaning comes off well enough in the Warrior Caste tongue, and the words are simple enough that Sinclair catches it. Sinclair can't help a smile.

Neroon stops cracking puns after that. It's a pity.

\--

It's a lie that the ceremony goes off without a hitch. Neroon had been adamant about the sha'neyat. _Death destroyer_, they call it. It's potent for Minbari - it's toxic for Humans. And it's clear that Neroon intends to test just how _Minbari not born of Minbari_ Rathenn and the late Jenimer and the rest of the Religious Caste believe Sinclair to be.

"Fine," says Sinclair. "I'll drink it. I only need to take a sip for tradition's sake. Isn't that right?"

"I agreed to a _traditional_ ceremony," Neroon argues. "That's a _cup_ of sha'neyat -"

But Sinclair shakes his head. Neroon, from his outraged expression, is clearly not used to being told 'no'. "The phrase is _taste of it_," says Sinclair. As Delenn said in the ceremony she conducted at Babylon 5 for Minbari Religious culture. "I don't know what Minbari tastebuds are like but Humans don't need to drink a full cup of something to taste it." He turns to Neroon. "Will that satisfy your protocols?"

He almost expects Neroon to refuse. Neroon leans in, watching him carefully. "And ... you would be willing to actually swallow some of the liquid? Not simply raise the chalice to your lips?"

Sinclair makes sure he smiles. He stands his ground, and he doesn't break eye contact. Neroon can lose this staring contest. "I give you my word." Should Neroon actually think it's worth anything.

Which, if he doesn't think anything of Humans, he shouldn't.

Neroon watches Sinclair another moment. Take a picture, why don't you, thinks Sinclair. "That should suffice," he says, surprising Sinclair. And he inclines his head, which if Sinclair didn't know any better, he might think is respect. That would be the first respect he'd seen from Neroon since coming to Minbar.

So when Sinclair ascends the ramp to the wide dais in the Ranger base in Tuzanor, and listens to Rathenn drone on and on in an ancient Minbari tongue he can't decipher, and Valen's robes are laid at his feet, he knows the _sha'neyat_ is the worst thing waiting for him. It burns and boils in his mouth and he knows he's not going to get at least one portion of his oesophagus back. Probably he's burnt some tastebuds. Somewhere in there, there's an aftertaste of sujeonggwa, if he squints.

_Through this act, may Death be destroyed_, drones Rathenn. _Taste of it. Taste of the future, of Death. Of Life._

Don't cough, he tells himself. Don't cough. Swallow it. Swallow.

It's down. Sinclair gasps and tries to regulate his breathing.

There. The worst is over, he thinks. (He's wrong. Oh, he's _so_ wrong!)

Rathenn looks concerned. Catherine, who arrived days ago and began Ranger training herself, looks terrified. Neroon is studying him like a particularly interesting science project. Sinclair fixes his glance on Neroon, so that if he projectile vomits, Neroon's in the splash zone.

Rathenn concludes the ceremony quickly enough and proclaims him Entil'Zha. The Rangers down in front cry out their vows. "Entil'Zha," says Rathenn again.

"Entil'Zha," murmurs Neroon, watching Sinclair carefully. That sharp spiky crest begins to swim in Sinclair's vision.

Sinclair's going to pass out any minute now. He staggers down the ramp with Catherine's arm looped through his and by the last few steps he's relying on her strength more than his own.

"Here," she says, "the doctors are already waiting for you -"

"Entil'Zha," declares Neroon, as he comes up behind them. He grins. "Feeling a little ill?"

"A sense - of h-humour?" Sinclair croaks, laughing derisively through the pain. "Think I liked - your puns - better."

And that's pretty well the last thing he remembers for the next three days.

\--

The last time Sinclair sees Neroon, he doesn't realise it's the last time. Perhaps if he had, he would not have been so impatient.

But too much has happened. They go to the temporal rift on Ulkesh's advice. They take a Vorlon/Minbari hybrid ship they're calling the White Star. Marcus, Sinclair, and Catherine fly outbound. Only Sinclair and Marcus make it back to Minbar.

He has a massive scar on his face now. He leaves it there, though the Minbari doctors think it's a terrible idea to demonstrate a physical flaw. This is all Sinclair has left of Catherine.

Vir comes to Minbar. Vir leaves Minbar. Clark's fascist authoritarianism becomes more and more overt. Mars, Proxima III, Orion VII, and Babylon 5 declare independence. The Shadows begin openly attacking.

Kosh dies.

Kosh had given him condolences when Catherine didn't return. But there is no one to give condolences to for Kosh. Ulkesh has already left for Babylon 5 and after spending months with the guy, Sinclair isn't sure he understands what condolences are.

Too much has happened, and Sinclair has precious little patience left for Neroon's typical posturing. They cross paths in Tuzanor after a Council meeting. Sinclair isn't sure what he's expecting. A cool nod, exchanged across the street? A single word greeting, "Entil'Zha," acknowledging his existence? But he gets nothing. Neroon passes a glance over Sinclair and it's gone a second later, as though he's not even worth addressing.

It dawns on him then. The threats Neroon had made as an Alyt of the Warrior Caste, he had been unable to carry out as Satai. But, there's no more Grey Council anymore. "Well," says Sinclair. "You're free now, aren't you? Make your move."

Neroon narrows his eyes. "I don't understand your foolish words," he replies. "Explain yourself."

"You're no longer Satai. So make the move you've wanted to make for over a year now. Nothing is stopping you." Sinclair adds further, in a dangerous growl, "Delenn isn't here. Jenimer isn't here. Even Rathenn holds no more power over you. No Satai does because there are no more Satai! So have at it."

Maybe he'll see Catherine on the other side. Nothing matters.

"You are Entil'Zha," says Neroon, like Sinclair doesn't _know_. "Valen reborn. It would be an unthinkable crime, to strike Valen."

"You already struck me once," points out Sinclair.

"You were not Entil'Zha then," says Neroon. A muscle in his jaw tightens; he's probably grinding his teeth. "You think I don't respect institutions," he continues. "That I don't respect tradition. I have greater respect for tradition than you could ever conceive of. But I don't have to explain my ways to you."

It'd be easier if you did, thinks Sinclair. We wouldn't misunderstand each other so often.

Neroon whirls on his heel and leaves, and Sinclair never sees him again. Two weeks later he sets a course for Babylon 5 (well, Babylon 4), having received a missive from Valen himself and, well -

The rest is (Minbari) history.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I write this just so I could tell the world about Neroon's _canon_ slow-clap? I might have!


End file.
